


You Give Me No Choice

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Romance, Bodice-Ripper, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Marriage, Made For Each Other, Marriage Proposal, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: AU One-shot for agweek2020, theme "Behind Closed Doors."This isn't as playful as my other fic, but it's not meant to be dark, either. We have a high & haughty Sansa here who is best woo'd with some coercion, romance-novel style, or Rhett Butler-esque, because Petyr is a bit roguish.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	You Give Me No Choice

From Winterfell’s ramparts, Sansa could make out the blue and white heraldry of House Arryn as the first of the knights crested the hill. She couldn’t tell if the scoundrel Lord Baelish rode afront, or perhaps in a litter, behind the army.

But she knew he was there.

_Best keep her wits about her._

Sansa’s lady mother might still consider the duplicitous Littlefinger a friend to the Starks, and her lord father might be too honorable to see the dishonor in others, but Sansa suspected much darker designs lurked behind the genial lord’s ready smirk.

She’d be wary, even if he hadn’t spoken to her so boldly and completely without propriety in the godswood many years ago. In her stomach, butterflies took wing at the memory.

_But he’d sworn. By the tree itself._

Sansa’s hands tightened around the balustrade.

 _Seven hells, why did the Knights chance to arrive when her mother and father were disposed at Riverrun? Bad luck and worse,_ Sansa thought.

She’d have to receive the Lord Protector herself. Robb was rallying their bannermen to the east, Jon was at the Wall, Bran lay abed most days, and Arya certainly wouldn’t be of any help.

 _Well,_ Sansa thought, dusting her skirts, _perhaps I can use this opportunity to our advantage._

Lord Petyr Baelish controlled the Eyrie through his ward, Robin Arryn, and as the stirrings of war rippled through the realm, the Vale had not yet declared for the North or the South. Lady Catelyn firmly believed her old friend to side with Winterfell. Queen Cersei was certain she could count on the support of her loyal ally. But as far as Sansa could tell, no true proclamation by the sly lord had been confirmed by word or deed.

Yet here the Knights marched. A few dozen soldiers, at least. What else could be their purpose, but to strike an alliance? Such a force alone wasn’t large enough to take the castle.

#

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Baelish greeted her, bowing. While low, he gently took Sansa’s gloved hand in his, though she hadn’t offered it.

Sansa stiffened as the lord placed a quick kiss on her knuckles. Coloring, she shifted her eyes to Septa Mordane, her chaperone. The elderly woman scowled but did not protest. Perhaps it wasn’t too much of a social transgression; he was her uncle by marriage.

Although, now that her Aunt Lysa had mysteriously died, Lord Petyr Baelish wasn’t really her uncle any longer, was he?

Sansa flashed a welcoming smile to smooth over the tension. “Welcome, Lord Baelish. You must be tired from your journey.”

He didn’t look particularly tired though. He looked… healthy. A youthful color rose in his cheeks, complementing the silver threading of hair at his temples.

“Please, call me, Petyr. And I can assure you, my lady, I’ve never felt more invigorated. The crisp air of the North is as refreshing as the winds that blow high in the Vale. A pleasant change after our journey through the Neck.”

Sansa furrowed her brow, unsure how she felt about his words. While it was courteous for Lord Petyr to compliment the sharp chill of her homeland, he did so at the expense of her friends at Moat Cailin.

Ever the lady, Sansa offered Petyr another smile. “This way, my lord,” she said, showing him through the gates of the castle.

#

“Ah,” Sansa collapsed on her bed with a sigh.

One by one she stripped the gloves from her arms, folding them carefully upon her bedside table. The evening had been agreeable enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Lord Baelish intentionally stonewalled her every time she broached the subject of war. Perhaps he was one of those men who didn’t think it ladylike for a woman to discuss such violent matters. Septa Mordane certainly cast sidelong glances at her whenever Sansa steered beyond the accepted dinnertime pleasantries: food, weather, and occasional, _amiable_ local gossip.

Sansa rose, unlacing her bodice. These new-fashioned gowns, allowing a lady to dress and undress herself, were quite a wonder. Frankly, Sansa didn’t like relying on her maid each morning and night just to clothe her own body. Although her shifts had such little give, always requiring a bit of wiggling to shimmy out of before bed. For now, Sansa instead tied a brocade robe around her waist and sat to brush her hair for the evening.

She had hoped to achieve an alliance with the Vale the Starks could depend upon, to have something to show her mother and father when they returned.

 _Foolishness._ She should have known better. Recalling how Littlefinger had spoken to her all those years ago… the things he said by the godswood, just out of her chaperone’s earshot… _Well._ A man like that, nay, _a rake,_ never changed. The Starks and House Arryn might well find themselves at opposite ends of the battlefield once war officially broke out.

The sound of voices beyond her door caught Sansa’s attention.

Down the hall and coming closer. Someone approached her guards. Sansa cocked her head, frowning.

_What could all that commotion be for?_

Shoulders squared, Sansa sprang to her feet, tensing as she listened.

Suddenly, her door opened and Sansa blinked, shocked to find Lord Petyr Baelish filling the entryway to _her bed chambers._

“My lord, are you lost?” she gasped, covering her chest, face bright red to be seen in attire as intimate as her robe.

“Not at all,” he replied.

Sansa blinked again, confused. A funny feeling tingled at the back of her neck. _Why was he here? Where were her guards that they allowed him to pass? And Septa Mordane, whose chamber stood just beside her own?_

Stepping inside, Petyr kicked the door closed behind him. Something older than time, a deep and primal warning, made Sansa instinctively back up.

#

_Three years ago_

When the sunlight streamed through the branches of the godswood, Sansa thought it to be one of the most enchanting places in all the realm. She came to pray, as Septa Mordane encouraged -- both in the godswood and in the sept. But Sansa secretly spent as much time admiring the beams of sunlight through the trees in the forest, or the sparkling of stained glass in the hall of the sept. After all, one of those sites would likely serve as her wedding chapel. How could she not lose herself to reveres about that day, what her dress would look like, whom her groom might be…

“I hope I don’t disturb your prayers, my lady,” came a voice from behind her, making her start.

“Lord Baelish,” a young Sansa replied. She quickly cast her eyes to the guards ringing the clearing in the wood, and her dour septa glowering beside them. It wasn’t appropriate for an unmarried young lady to be alone with any man, let alone such an older gentlemen. But in this holy site, under the watchful eye of her chaperone, it was suitable enough. 

“Not at all,” Sansa said, courteously. She nodded her head, indicating the lord to take a place on his knees beside her, facing the sacred tree.

Petyr Baelish knelt a bit too close, but Sansa couldn’t do anything about it without seeming impolite. He leaned over, just slightly, and whispered out of one side of his mouth.

“Perhaps one day, we’ll wed by this weirwood.”

Aghast, Sansa’s mouth fell. It was a terribly rude thing to say. Flattering, momentarily. But, _rude,_ Sansa reminded herself.

“Would that please you, Lady Sansa?”

“Sir, I…” Remembering herself, Sansa lifted her chin. “I will marry according to my station and to a man of my father’s choosing. This is not the wilds, north of the wall, where women run mad and elope in haste and foolishness.”

 _Unless… did this strange lord mean to ask her father for her hand in marriage? To force her into a union?_ Sansa’s cheeks flamed. She would not be commanded to marry a man nearly twice her age! How dare he?

“And my father would never permit one of such low birth to receive the hand of his eldest daughter,” she added haughtily, and perhaps rudely herself.

But he’d insulted her first.

But it _was_ ill-mannered of her to mention his parentage.

Sansa bit her lip, brow furrowed; torn between apologizing and demanding _his_ apology.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Lord Baelish said. “I will speak no further on the matter.” A smirk played upon his lips. “But know that I would never presume to marry a lady who did not express a requited desire to unite in matrimony.”

If Sansa was surprised at the idea of a noble lady having a say in her betrothed, what Lord Baelish whispered next positively shocked her.

“And not before expressing a requited desire… behind closed doors.”

Weirwood forgotten, Sansa scowled openly at Petyr, yet still his words confused her. They almost sounded like those of a gentleman in seeking the return of a lady’s affection. But how unforgivably scandalous to talk about intimacy at all. Times might be changing for the commonfolk, but the Starks carried themselves with dignity.

“I intend to have my wife before wedlock,” Petyr whispered, head dipped low and near, as if conspiring with her. “And I think you’d rather have a husband of your own choosing. But you have my word, my lady. I would never seek physical intimacy without your permission.”

_That was too much! And to bring it back to her again?_

Sansa shot to her feet.

“I would never choose you and I’d never give such consent. Good day, sir.”

#

“My lord,” Sansa protested, standing alone in her room with Littlefinger. “Please leave my chambers at once.”

Slowly, Petyr dragged a chair across the room until it stood in front of her doorway. All the while, Sansa’s blood raced with a rising sensation of fight-or-flight. _What was he doing?_

Petyr sat.

“Sir. You _must_ leave. Now.”

Petyr watched her. No, he studied her. Why?

Sansa felt as if her heartbeats echoed throughout the room, off the walls. Before understanding why, she cried out, “Guards!”

No answering shuffle of feet came. Petyr blinked. Sansa backed away again, though he made no move to rise.

“Where are my guards?” she demanded, clutching tighter at her robe. Without waiting for an answer, she called out, “Septa Mordane!”

Deafening silence was the only reply.

“What have you done to my guards?” Sansa asked, struggling to maintain an even tone. Lord Baelish hadn’t made any move to attack her and she didn’t want to provoke him. She didn’t want to give anything away until she understood what was happening.

“Everybody wants something, sweetling. When you know what a man wants, you know how to move him. Literally, in this case.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” Sansa backed away another two paces. “I will remind you that you vowed never to touch me without my permission. I let you into this castle without my mother and father in residence, in part because of the vow you made by the godswood.”

She didn’t want to mention that scandalous exchange, but they both remembered; tension simmered beneath the surface, despite their playing at pleasantries over roasted duck that evening.

“I intend to keep that vow. More or less. The two guards down the hall were bought with gold. Those nearest your door required more sophisticated means of coercion. Four of my own men now linger in these halls.” 

“Where is my septa?” Sansa asked, desperately stalling whatever conclusion this horror might hold, fighting the rising sense that she already knew.

“She mistakenly sipped from my servant’s cup this evening. Unluckily, it contained a sleeping draught.”

Sansa closed her eyes, blood racing in her ears. 

“I don’t understand. _Please leave._ Even someone like you must know this is most inappropriate-”

Sansa stopped abruptly, bringing a loose fist to her lips.

“You do know, don’t you?” she whispered. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Lord Baelish’s eyes twinkled, telling Sansa she was on the right path.

_But, oh gods. She couldn’t take another step, couldn’t admit…_

“You don’t intend to touch me…” she breathed.

His mouth quirked. Sansa gasped.

“My guards saw… your guards saw… the door close. My reputation! Are they spreading lies? People will think… oh gods, you’ll ruin me! Let me out!”

Sansa lurched at Petyr, clawing for the door, but he wrapped his hands around her waist and easily pulled her back.

“Let me go! I’ll scream!” Sansa warned, then shouted anyway.

Half-carrying her to her bed and cupping his hand over her mouth, Petyr sat Sansa onto the coverlet and positioned himself behind her. One hand still wrapped around her waist, holding her back to his chest, the other remained clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries. Sansa felt Petyr’s warm breath against her ear.

“Everyone will soon believe we’re having a dalliance in here tonight, yes. Scream, and they’ll think I’m raping you. You’d ruin us both. Tell me sweetling, which is worse? One of these can be repaired. The other…”

Sansa pulled at Petyr’s fingers, but he she couldn’t budge his hand.

“Be still, my love,” Lord Baelish whispered as she thrashed against his arms. “It’s already too late.”

Sansa’s heart sank and tears pricked her eyes. He was right. Every moment she failed to leave her bed chambers made it more difficult to undo whatever damage was currently being done. Had he bid servants to witness his lurking outside her doorway? Paid for the spread of gossip throughout her castle? _Planted rumors before even arriving?_

Who knew? With Petyr, anything was possible. Whatever he’d done, Sansa was sure ruination awaited her on the other side of that door.

“Shh, sweetling,” Lord Baelish rasped. “I have a plan. Would you like to hear it?”

Sansa shook her head, but she finally ceased struggling. Tears fell now, tears for her lost reputation, her innocence. Petyr Baelish had taken it, stolen it from her, without even touching her. At least, not intimately. Just like he’d said. Come morning, hells, _within hours,_ she just knew word would spread throughout Winterfell that he’d visited her bedchambers. A stain like that upon a lady’s character and no husband would ever want her. She’d be an outcast, a spinster, no good house in all of Westeros would receive her.

_What had she ever done to deserve such a fate?_

Sansa hadn’t even noticed Lord Baelish released her.

Falling off the bed and sinking to her knees on the floor, Sansa could only picture the shame her future beheld. And here, she’d thought she might have an alliance to present to her parents. She was a stupid girl who never learned.

Her robe had fallen open, her hair was in disarray. Sansa didn’t know, didn’t care. She’d even lost sight of Lord Baelish, so wrapped up in her own misery.

When she next looked, he stood over her.

“I have a plan,” he repeated. “Would you like to hear it?”

Sansa didn’t answer.

“I can leave now-” he said, and damn him, _damn him,_ but Sansa grabbed his legs to prevent it. She couldn’t let him go, couldn’t give him the opportunity to… do whatever he might do to make this situation worse.

“Or I can stay,” he rasped.

“And ruin me,” Sansa cried.

“I don’t intend to ruin you. I intend to raise you,” Petyr whispered. Using one finger, he lifted Sansa’s chin.

“Would you like me to stay and tell you my plan?”

Blinking through her tears and clenching her teeth, Sansa slowly nodded.

She hated him. She needed him.

“There’s nothing to be done about my admittance into your chambers this evening. That ship has sailed, sweetling. But the spin on the story is yours, my love. That’s up to you.”

 _Oh, gods,_ Sansa thought. She knew it. Everyone was probably whispering about it already. It would be her word against his, and whoever he bribed or blackmailed to besmirch her.

“Either I came up here for a dalliance out of wedlock… or I did not.”

Sansa frowned and swallowed. She licked her lips a few times; they’d grown dry.

“What do you mean?” she croaked.

“It wouldn’t be a union out of wedlock if we’d already wed.”

“I – I don’t understand.”

“Do you know what the people love almost as much as salacious gossip about fallen highborn ladies?” Lord Petyr didn’t wait for her to reply. “Love stories about secret unions…” he twirled one lock of auburn between his fingers. “…Secret unions such as ours.”

“But we don’t have a secret union.”

“Who’s to say? Who’s to say I didn’t marry you that day by the weirwood? Your guards would swear to it, if properly motivated. Your septa might be dealt with as well… and if not, no matter. It’s just the word of an old lady against our love.”

Sansa’s wrath grew as her tears dried. “Speak plainly, Lord Baelish. What are you proposing?”

“Only that I proposed long ago and you accepted. Much like your wild ladies beyond the wall. We eloped in the godswood, three years prior. Being a gentleman, I waited to consummate our union until you were older.”

“A gentleman?” Sansa spat, fisting her hands.

Petyr shrugged. “The choice is yours, my lady. You can claim I forced you and bring us both down. Or I will say nothing about this evening, if you wish.”

“You give me no choice! You don’t _need_ to say anything.” Sansa rose to her feet. “The damage is already done!”

Petyr’s tongue darted out once, tapping his lip.

Mind reeling, Sansa clamped her hands over her forehead, desperately searching for a way out. Her parents would be devastated to believe she’d secretly eloped all this time. But they’d be crushed to hear she’d welcomed Lord Baelish to her chambers at night. Not to mention, what the entire realm would think of her and of House Stark. Her reputation would always be questioned, it didn’t matter if her parents believed her, if Ned put sword to throat and made the guards swear…

 _Whose guards were they really?_ Sansa suddenly wondered. _Had Petyr planted men in Winterfell, loyal to him?_

Oh, gods. Who knew?

_Besmirched. At best, she’d always be lesser than she was before, rumors dogging her heels wherever she’d tread. And she’d likely be destroyed if Petyr put his mind to it._

But… she wasn’t ruined yet.

Sansa met Petyr’s green-grey stare. He wanted something from her right now. That meant there was room for negotiation.

“If I do this,” Sansa growled through clenched teeth, “I’m not saying I _will,_ but if I agree to marry you, will you pledge the Knights of the Vale to our cause? Can Winterfell count on the support of House Arryn?” 

Petyr smiled, as if he expected or delighted in her bargaining.

“Consider it done.”

Sansa sucked in a deep breath.

_Well, that’s something. No small thing, really._

Oh gods, was she actually considering this? Marrying this despicable lord? _Who tricked her?_

At least… at least he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, Sansa thought. His silver-threaded hair and sharp features were actually handsome. And he did dress very well and possess a great fortune. And he could affect the manners of a gentleman in public, when he wanted to.

_Gods, no! What am I thinking?_

“I hate you. I despise you. Why would I marry you?” Sansa demanded, backing away, fisting her hands again.

“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question. I won’t insult your intelligence by listing the reasons. But let me just say that I do believe you’re in possession of a great wealth of intelligence, and I wouldn’t see you squander it.”

Sansa blinked. _Gods, he was confusing her, as always!_

“Let’s just say I agree this… fake wedding occurred,” she said. “What happens next? You walk out of here and we pretend we’re in love? We arrange a secret wedding, a real one?”

“If you ask me nicely, sweetling,” Petyr replied, with a gleam in his eye. “Remember what I told you that day in the godswood?”

“That you would never touch me without my permission,” Sansa said warily.

The rest of the conversation came back to her.

“And that you’d have your wife before your wedding.”

_He wanted her anyway now. He wanted her to ask for it. Why? Was it a bet he had with himself, just to prove he could? Or perhaps as a guarantee she wouldn't change her mind, come morning?_

“You’re a bastard,” Sansa said. He held her reputation in his hands and still he wanted more. His way. All of it. Or nothing.

_How did he know? Was it by the slight slumping of her shoulders? The quickening pace of her breath?_

Petyr knew her acquiescence before she did.

He approached, invading her personal space. Marking it his personal space, too. A husband’s space.

“Tell me, sweetling,” he said, placing his hands upon her shoulders. “If not for the matter of my low birth, would some part of you not desire me as a husband?”

“Well now there’s the matter of your treachery to add to it.”

“A necessary evil.”

Petyr gently pushed the robe from her shoulders. He tilted her chin up with his fingers. He brought his mouth to hers.

Petyr slid his tongue past her lips and Sansa shivered. She’d never been kissed before. She didn’t _want_ to kiss Petyr. But now his hand was pressing the back of her head and the other, the small of her back. She had no where to go and she was at the mercy of his decisions anyway and the kiss… felt nice. 

A flicker of desire glowed amongst her rage. Just a small thing, a candle’s light against a backdrop of wildfire. But the red flame proved so _distracting_ , so mesmerizing beside all that green. Despite its size, Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes from it.

All the more when Petyr ran his fingers through her hair and down her neck and it seemed to grow.

“Lie down on the bed, sweetling.” He said it as if she had a choice, though his body moved hers backward, guiding her to accept him.


End file.
